Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) Read Online Free PDF Page A

feeling the pull of Treoraí’s Heart as it yearned to be used. Her fingers absently brushed the stone as she spoke.
    “Who are these people, Siúr Martain?”
    “The injured man’s name is Cristóir Barróid, Banrion Ard,” Áine told her. “The woman is his wife, and the men with him are cousins. His horse fell on him a week ago, and he’s no longer able to be in the fields or keep his sheep.”
    “The work’s hard enough, Banrion Ard,” one of the men against the wall said, “an’ we canna be there every day to work his land and our own besides. Marta’s heavy with their first child, as you can see, an’ besides Cristóir needs to be looked after all day. It would’a been more merciful if—” He stopped as Marta shot a venomous look at him.
    Meriel nodded. She looked at Marta, cradling her heavy stomach with her hands. Her gaze was pleading and worried.
    Meriel took Treoraí’s Heart in her left hand, and there was an audible intake of breath from one of the cousins as they saw the white scars that lined that hand. Meriel smiled reassuringly at them and closed her fingers around the cloch. She let her mind fall into the linkage between herself and the jewel. She saw with doubled sight yet again, her own vision overlaid with the bright world of the cloch. There, in the cloch-vision, she could see the red-orange mass of this man’s pain. She touched his arm, and the ruddy landscape rushed toward her, the tendrils of his agony lashing out toward her. She gasped at its touch but allowed herself to sink farther into him, to be him. Cristóir’s thoughts rose in her head as if they were her own. He knew nothing about where he was now. The constant pain overlaid everything, and his thoughts rested nowhere— . . . Mother, it hurts . . . the damned horse . . . when will this end . . . can’t bear it can’t bear it much longer . . . She could hear him screaming inside, a wail of torment that racked every muscle in his body though he remained nearly silent. The scream drowned out nearly everything else, yet . . . the internal howl contained more than just pain: there was a terrible worry and concern for Marta, for his unborn child, for the work undone on his small piece of land. There was despair, a certainty that he would die or, far worse, be trapped like this forever.
    Meriel sobbed with him, helpless, her own emotions tied to his. She let herself drift through him, examining the bloody wreck of his body as she fought to keep her own identity separate from his: the broken ribs, the internal bleeding, the torn and bruised muscles, the spine that had been fractured. He would live, she saw, but he would never walk again, would never be without great pain, would never be more than a burden to his family.
    She forced her fingers to release Treoraí’s Heart, though it ached to be used. She took a long, slow breath, closing her eyes. She could feel them all watching her.
    This is the moment I hate. This is the hardest part: choosing. Treoraí’s Heart could be used once before needing to be replenished with the mage-lights that came nearly every night. And each and every day there were more people who came here, with injuries and afflictions as bad or worse than these . . . She couldn’t cure them all, only a bare few.
    It’s never easy. It’s never fair . . .
    “Bantiarna MacKeough,” she said, opening her eyes again. The woman smiled at her expectantly, and Meriel hated the hopeful expression on the bantiarna’s face. “My Hand will direct you to a healer here in Dún Laoghaire who has potions and herbs that should ease your breathing. I hope that will help you. Siúr Martain . . .” Áine came forward then, taking the bantiarna’s arm before she fully realized what Meriel was saying and escorting her to the door. Áine beckoned to one of her aides in the corridor outside and gave him quick, whispered instructions as the bantiarna turned her head to stare back into the chamber. The look on the young